I got home last night and his t-shirt was at the top of the washing pile. He had been in touch over the weekend, just to confirm the post-third date text. Which was helpful because nothing says I care like re-rejection. And then I found myself driving down the road to his house and knocking on the door and then he is there in front of me. Surprised but smiling. ‘I just wanted to return your t-shirt’. Come in for a cup of peppermint tea. How civilized. And then small talk about Easter and was it fun down south and how did the egg hunt go?
‘So I got your text yesterday and I have been trying to wrap my brain around what happened. We clicked didn’t we? I mean that wasn’t just in my head?’. Nods. ‘I don’t feel that with just anyone. It was all so great, lovely. I mean you were so there, present, and in it. And I don’t understand what happened.’ He looked uncomfortable, sad, sorry. And then I felt the prickly eyes as I ask the real question. ‘Was it something I did or said? Was it me?’ And then the smile, no it was not me at all, I was perfect, great, lovely. It’s just he is sadder than he had thought about the one before, and not ready for the next. Simple. Just timing.
Later, we hugged goodbye. A long, deep sigh escaped me. I had my answer. And the thing is it feels like progress because I have never been brave enough to ask the question.
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